Perfection
by CantFaketheFunk
Summary: A short story from the perspective of Franziska von Karma after the events of PW2, after returning to Germany. Hints of FranziskaAdrian. Warning: PW2 SPOILERS AHOY!


Little thing I just banged out from the perspective of a character who oddly enough, keeps growing on me—Franziska von Karma. Strong hints of Franziska/Adrian, so if that sort of thing bugs you, might not want to read it. (But it's so _cuuuuuute_!)

Inspired by, and trying to mirror, "Clemency" by Lerayl ( - And it was written fairly quickly, so please excuse the numerous flaws

Takes place four months after the final case in Phoenix Wright 2.

**THERE ARE SPOILERS IN THIS STORY FOR ALL PHOENIX WRIGHT 2 CASES, SO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!**

**Perfection**

The light was on in the southern office on the eighth floor of the Department of Public Prosecutors long before the warm rays of the sun ever crested the horizon. Of course, nobody on the ground saw the rays in question, due to the thick blanket of clouds that shrouded the world in a perpetual misty twilight. It was the rainy season in Hamburg, Germany, and last night had borne a sizeable thunderstorm. The rains and thunder had come and gone, leaving only a slate-gray ceiling of clouds behind.

And so, when most working men and women were just starting to wake, eat breakfast, and head off to their jobs, a young prodigy of law had already been awake and busy for over an hour.

Fransizka von Karma rested the end of a pen against her lower lip in thought for a brief instant before scribbling something down on a piece of paper in dark, quick, clean strokes. She slid the letter-size page across her desk in one smooth motion, placing it on top of a small pile of similar sheets, before turning slightly to the display on her computer monitor far on the left. The local news site still hadn't reported the murder, it appeared. Almost disappointing.

Her office was not small, though she had refrained from claiming an extravagantly large one for her own as many in the Prosecutor's Department did (or wished to do, had they the means). It was just as much space as she needed; anything more would be a waste. A row of file cabinets lined the rear wall behind her, a shoulder-high gray monolith of case files. Each drawer was labeled exactly and impeccably, and there was a three-ring folder lying on top of the cabinets that contained a list of brief case summaries, possible precedents to use, and so on. Franziska von Karma never used it—she never needed to.

The desk that was the main focus of the room was three-quarters of the way to the rear wall, a simple polished wood piece with multiple drawers and compartments for various tools. There were two piles of paper up in the corner, a simple computer monitor over on the far right side—Fransizka didn't much like using computers, but they were useful tools—and the rest of the space she would use for her current case files.

The entire left wall was a built-in bookshelf covered in various legal tomes that the young prosecutor had virtually memorized. Opposite it was a map of the city of Hamburg, with various pinpoints designating the scenes of murders that Franziska had been assigned to prosecute. Other than a pair of chairs in the middle of the room facing her desk, the office was bare and Spartan, without any unnecessary ornamentation. Everything had a place, and she knew exactly where it was. Franziska could have probably worked blindfolded, if it suited her to do so. Everything was perfect, as was fitting.

There were four phones on a small side desk to her right (which, with the other desk, formed an "L" shape around her leather chair), one of which was the inter-department communications line, with various blinking lights indicating certain conversations happening all over the building. As the Department was virtually empty at this early hour, its face was blank for the time. The other three phones were all mobile models, each in its own individual dock for charging and storage purposes.

Each phone had its own number and purpose, so that Franziska would know exactly what to expect before answering. The black land line would ring with news of evidence, completed analyses and reports, or those cumbersome and meandering questions from the Chief of Police that Franziska was reluctantly forced to waste her precious time answering. To its right, the tan mobile phone—phone #1—was for field reports, information about new cases, and everything of that nature that was not from immediately within the department. Today, it had already seen considerable use, even this early in the morning. Further down the line was the second phone, this one a dark blue. This was the line that the news channels had for Prosecutor von Karma, and Franziska expected it to start ringing shortly.

The third and last phone had never rung. It was red, and Franziska used that number for all of her personal calls. However, as she always paid her bills before their due dates, and made as little effort to socialize with her coworkers (or anybody else, for that matter) as possible, it was perpetually silent.

Not only could Franziska identify each phone by its location and feel in her hand, she had ensured that she could recognize them by sound as well. The first phone's ring was well known to anybody with a taste for classical music—a clip from Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the closest to a perfect composer that had ever lived. Another Mozart piece—Lacrimosa from his final Requiem—was the chosen ring on the second phone.

Once more, the third mobile phone was unique. There was a part of Franziska that was glad that the red phone had never rang, for its sound was quite unlike any of the others. Instead of being an elegant, perfect classical piece by the greatest musician to ever live, it was a baudy little jingle from a foolish little children's television show. Against the timeless work of Amadeus, it seemed trite and meaningless.

To Franziska von Karma, it carried the most meaning of all. The time spent in America had been trying for the daughter of Manfred von Karma, with her perfect record and perfect cases shattered by the persistence (and blind luck) of one certain defense attorney. She had gone up against that foolish lawyer and his little companion twice, and twice she had been utterly defeated. Had she returned to court to face him a third time, though, things would have gone differently.

Instead, she had been ambushed outside the courthouse before she could enter, shot in the shoulder by a mysterious assailant that hadn't been caught since. She'd been replaced in court by her father's _other_ protégé, Miles Edgeworth—back from the dead. Edgeworth was good, of course… but it was his case, not hers.

Matt Engarde was found guilty, not for the actual act of murder, but for conspiring to commit it. Wright had been defeated. However, it had been by Edgeworth's hand, not hers. A part of Fransizka ached at that loss; the lack of a chance to prove herself and demonstrate her own abilities. If she had been standing opposite Wright, things would have gone differently in that courtroom. It would have been a perfect case. They had _all_ been perfect cases—though thanks to the ineptitude of a certain police detective and his coworkers, they had been perfect cases built on imperfect facts.

There was no reason to prosecute the innocent. In that one way, perhaps, the goals of the prosecution was like that of the defense—to see the true guilty party face punishment. Fransizka chose to seek that end by finding the perpetrator and bringing the full weight of the law to bear on them. If the evidence showed the guilt of one person, charging another with the crime and wasting precious time and resources was foolish indeed. For that reason, a prosecutor needed to assume that the defendant had, indeed, committed the crime in question.

Defense attorneys had to assume that the prosecution was wrong; that their client was innocent. They had to trust in that and work to prove it against the prosecution's efforts. In doing so, they would establish who had _not_ committed the crime, rather than who had. It struck the blue-haired prodigy that Wright had been awfully good at doing both simultaneously, but that was more luck and coincidence than anything else.

Franziska's perfect cases had been dismantled not through any fault of her own, but simply because the defendants were, in fact, innocent. Had her detectives seen the bullet-hole or found the hidden clothes-basket behind the folding curtain in Kurain village, or had they found the bust of Max Galactica concealed beneath Ken Dingling's wheelchair… well, the person on the witness stand would have been a decidedly different someone. There was no point in prosecuting the innocent, no joy in seeing the blameless sent to death row. At least, not to her, though she suspected there might be others who felt differently.

If she had learned anything in America, it was that things were often deeper than they seemed.

---

Despite being spring, the misty morning air was surprisingly cool. Franziska's stride was even, measured, not too slow nor too quick—it was calculated and perfect. She was, at present, roughly forty kilometers outside of Hamburg, where the urban sprawl started to give way to more open space. There was a medium-sized, U-shaped building in front of her, with towering spires and parapets that gave the appearance of a medieval castle. That was, of course, the idea—it was an inn for tourists in the style of the old Holy Roman Empire… or at least, what the tourists expected the architecture of that era to look like.

At the moment, it was the scene of a murder.

A young police officer, noticing her, jogged over to the prosecutor, his boots squishing in the mud beneath his feet audibly. Without breaking her stride, Fransizka continued on, forcing the officer to match her brisk pace. Even though the patrolman was a head taller than the prosecutor and much more powerfully built, he seemed to shrink away from her mere presence in intimidation. She spoke, the only sign that she acknowledged his presence at all. "What's relevant, Ernst?"

Officer Hans Ernst ran a hand through his dark brown hair, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "The landlord, Frederich Kruger, was shot to death at approximately two o'clock in the morning today. We're waiting on the coroners to arrive to take away the body, so there's no autopsy report yet, but it looks like he was killed by a single shot to the throat." He jerked a dirt-splattered thumb to the right, where yellow tape marked the perimeter of the police investigation. There was a black tarpaulin on the ground, and von Karma could make out the outline of a body underneath.

She ducked the yellow tape and motioned for Hans to peel back the tarpaulin. He did so quickly, revealing the body of the victim. Frederich Kruger had been a short, fat man, with a piggy little face and a completely bald head—though his bushy black eyebrows suggested that he had not quite gone gray. He had blue, beady eyes that stared up into the sky, glassy and expressionless in death. Though his entire body was soaked by water, the darkness on his shirt and stain on his chin and neck could only be blood, blood that had drained away onto the muddy ground from a gaping wound in his neck.

The violence of the scene didn't disturb Franziska, for it was nothing new to her. Manfred von Karma had believed in his superiority, though he was never foolish enough to believe in immortality. He had failed to make a prosecutor out of his elder daughter, so he began to mold the younger into his successor from a very young age. Crime scenes and death were nothing new to the prodigy. In a way, however, she almost regretted becoming so inured to the view of another human being lifeless.

Though the little girl that the lawyer Wright dragged around with him hadn't been exposed to anything truly graphic in the time Franziska had spent in America, she believed it was only a matter of time… which was almost saddening. Wright and the little girl had been there in the hotel, just after—

No, this was not the time to think about such things. She had a case to build.

Hans looked up at her, sheepishly. "Hell of a painful way to go." At her nod, the young officer covered up the body again, standing up and wiping off his muddy hands on his trousers (though it didn't seem to help much). "The coroners will be here in about ten minutes, so we can get a proper autopsy then. But that wound is pretty hard to miss, eh Miss Fransizka?" Narrowing her eyes and resting her hand on the handle of her whip, Fransizka made it rather clear that she did not appreciate his casual tone of voice, and the officer shrank back in submission, "I-I mean, isn't it hard to miss, P-prosecutor von Karma?"

She nodded, looking up at the gray sky and releasing her whip's handle. "Two o'clock last night… that was during the middle of the storm, wasn't it?"

The officer nodded. "Right during the height of it, actually. That's the reason why the crime was reported so late—there was a blackout, and the phone lines went down for about three hours."

"And the suspect?"

To his credit, Hans Ernst didn't miss a beat. Competence was refreshing, thought the prosecutor to herself. "Markus Richter, a tenant. We've looked through the files of the inn, and apparently he owed Kruger quite a bit of money. He was going to be evicted in a week—so he's got a motive."

The ruddy-faced officer pointed up at a third-story window near the inside corner of the building, below a large floodlight that illuminated the side of the building down to the doorway, directly beneath it. "That's Richter's room, where we found him sleeping this morning. It's also where the fatal shot was fired—from Richter's handgun. An old revolver, imported from the States—with one bullet missing. It's impossible to say right now, but I'd guess that the forensics team will match the ballistic markings on the bullet to his gun."

Franziska's voice was flat and strong, showing no signs of wavering or doubt whatsoever. "You mentioned his alibi on the phone. He was at a bar, he said?"

Her companion nodded. "Says he went to a bar to drown out the racket from the storm, and that's where he was at the time of the murder."

"Find the bartender on duty, bring him in for questioning," The young prosecutor snapped her fingers up in the air, her other hand going towards her whip. "_Now._" The large patrolman flinched involuntarily, and immediately pulled out a radio, shooting a brief gaze of terror at Franziska before relaying the order to his fellow officers. "And if his alibi holds out?"

Hans Ernst shrugged. "I don't see how it could, Fra—Prosecutor von Karma. Not only is there the evidence already against him, but there's a witness. The inn's chef, as a matter of fact. He says he was watching the storm from his room," he pointed at a first-floor window a ways away, "when he saw Richter lean out of his window and fire the fatal shot."

For a moment, Franziska stood in thought. A year ago, this would have been all it took. Means, motive, a weapon and a witness. All that remained would be to make sure the witnesses knew exactly what she expected them to say on the stand, and she would build her perfect case.

"Bring me to the witness, I want to talk to him." It was not a request, and both of them knew it. Hans quickly shuffled his way through the mud and opened the nearby door—painted to look like a medieval castle gate—and the two of them entered the dimly lit halls of the inn. The lights were flickering and quite dim, and Franziska guessed it was because they were running on the inn's auxiliary power.

He led her through the hallways until they came to a wooden door with gothic-style numbers informing all who cared that it was Room 119. Without waiting for Officer Ernst to knock, Franziska turned the knob and entered. There was a man sitting inside the lonely room by a chair near the window, dressed all in the white uniform of a chef (though without the trademark hat). "My name is Franziska von Karma, District Prosecutor. I am in charge of this investigation. What is your name?"

"My, my, Prosecutor. Aren't we hasty?" The man gave a toothy smile and stood up—he was tall and very thin, almost gaunt, with sharp, bony features that reminded Franziska of a skeleton with skin stretched tightly over it. He bowed softly, a gesture that the young attorney did not return. "My name is Manfred Herzog, head chef here at this establishment."

Anybody who was paying very close attention to the blue-haired woman's body language would have noticed a slight jolt at his name, a jolt that was quickly suppressed and covered up. Unbidden memories of her father started surfacing… her father's blind obsession with perfection at whatever cost.

Franziska was well aware that her path closely paralleled that of her father. Even the healed wound in her shoulder that ached on wet days—like today—was evidence of that. Like father, like daughter… but she refused to let the wound that had been her father's downfall become hers. She would grow from it, and had grown from it. One could strive to be perfect, and that was admirable and just. But obsession with perfection? Such an obsession was, ironically enough, a flaw—a flaw that had doomed her father.

Though her pause in thought was a scant few seconds, that was all it took for a slight smirk to find its way onto Herzog's face. He clearly thought she was weak, easily pressured. Which meant that he had something he was wanting to hide.

That in itself wasn't new. Most people had a skeleton or two in their closets, and when confronted by a district prosecutor—who could very well use their confession against them—they would be very reticent to say anything that could possibly indicate a wrongdoing of their own.

_Except for her._

No! This was not the time to reminisce about the past. Whatever this one was hiding, it irked her. "Very well. You claim to have seen Markus Richter shooting Frederich Kruger last night, correct?"

Manfred Herzog spread his arms wide, smiling conceitedly. "I may have seen something like that, yes…"

_CRACK!_

The tip of her lash snapped the air in front of Herzog's bony face, and the gaunt man screeched, jumping back. "Wh-what was that, you insane woman?!"

Franziska held the whip over her head, holding it taut and making it crystal clear that she would not hesitate to strike again. "I have no time for the foolish ramblings of a foolishly foolish fool. You will tell me exactly what you saw."

Though he was stunned, Herzog nodded, motioning her to the window. "I was watching the storm through this window," Franziska noticed that the sill was wet, as if it had been rained on—though the window was tightly shut. Perhaps there was a leak? "And then I see Frederich walking from his office to his cottage over there on the hill," she saw a two-story house about one hundred meters away, a boring-looking home.

"Just then, I noticed something moving underneath the floodlight," continued the chef, and Franziska noted that Richter's room—and the floodlight above it—and I saw Markus Richter lean out of his window and shoot poor Frederich in the neck!"

"How did you know it was him?" the prosecutor's voice was calm and dispassionate, as if asking about the weather.

Herzog nodded again. "Oh, that part's easy! Not only was he wearing that ugly hat and coat he always wears, but the floodlight illuminated his face!"

"Is that so?" A turquoise eyebrow arched, but the rest of her body and face remained expressionless. For a third time, Herzog nodded an affirmative.

_CRACK!_

"I am here to find out the _truth_, chef! You will _not_ lie to me, do you understand?" Her whip was held high once more, her cheeks flushed in anger. "Foolishly hoping fool who foolishly hopes to get away with his fool's tales! You could not have seen Richter's face, because the floodlight was behind him! He would have been in shadow like that—so are you going to tell me the truth, or are you going to waste my time and get better acquainted with the bite of my whip?!"

The chef's pale face drained even further, and there was a look of horror and contempt in his eyes. "N-no! No! I… okay, I didn't see his face, but I saw his coat and hat, those beat up pieces of junk… anybody could recognize them! Besides, it was his room—it had to be him! I swear!"

Franziska held the whip up high… and then lowered it. "I understand. Ernst, have him taken down to the Department for further questioning. Wait here until Detective Schumann comes to further analyze the scene. If you find out anything, call me immediately."

With that, she strode out of the room with her perfect gait, letting it slam behind her. "The power was out at two in the morning," she said to herself. "He didn't see anything at all." Franziska decided that she had some financial records to look through.

---

Franziska sat in the back of the police sedan driving her back to the Department, letting her thoughts drift for a brief moment. Herzog's gaze had been contemptuous, as if she were beneath him—which fueled her dislike of the man even more. It had also been fearful of her whip, which was a look she knew full well.

Phoenix Wright had looked at her with passion and determination, unwilling to give up despite the odds. The bumbling, inept detective and his coworkers had looked at her in a mix of respect, awe, and trembling fear of her whip. Defendants looked at her in terror, witnesses looked at her in trepidation and awe of her tenacity and ferocity in the Prosecutor's Box.

The man whom she considered a brother… Miles Edgeworth… he'd looked at her with respect, true. But almost a grudging, patronizing respect… as if she were still a young, foolish girl. So many thought that of her before tasting the sting of her lash—and finding out that she, barely a legal woman, had accomplished far more than any of them would in their boring, mundane lives.

Her father had never looked at her with respect. She remembered his gaze well, one of patronization, high expectation, and disappointment. Even after becoming a full-fledged prosecutor at the incredibly young age of 13, he had never looked at her with respect as his other protégé did. Even when he'd left her and gone to America, he would often call with his advice on the case—whether Franziska wanted it or not. He never asked her opinion. He never asked for her help. She was a replacement if Edgeworth didn't succeed, and she suspected that the elder von Karma would almost rather Edgeworth change his name to continue the von Karma line than leave it to his younger daughter.

The prodigy could only remember one person that had looked at her with genuine trust… and a need. The clock rolled back days and weeks and months to the investigation of the murder of Juan Corrida.

With a start, Franziska realized why she'd found it so hard to focus all day. She'd always prided herself on an accurate internal calendar and an ability to memorize dates perfectly. Today was the day that Adrian Andrews would be released from her minor sentence for her actions during the investigation—the punishment was lighter, of course, due to her cooperation with the state in building their case against Matt Engarde.

A sentence, Franziska knew, that she was partially responsible for.

Before talking to any of the people involved, Franziska had read up on their profiles well. She'd known all about Celeste Inpax, about Andrews' attempted suicide and subsequent actions, and about her dependency issue. From the moment she'd entered that hotel room, she'd known that the cool, collected manager was a complete façade.

She hadn't expected it to break down so quickly, though.

Most witnesses she talked to in the course of an investigation would never reveal such a damning fact to the lead prosecutor for fear of finding themselves on the defendant's stand. So, to see the other woman go from collected and distant to practically sobbing out how she'd stabbed a dead man in the chest and planted the evidence on her own client was actually something that Franziska—who prided herself on her knowledge—was completely unprepared for.

Though the two women were almost the same height, Adrian looked so small and helpless, shrinking into herself, at last breaking the silence by asking Franziska if she thought she was a horrible person for what she'd done.

I don't care what sort of person you are, and it doesn't matter anyway, she'd told the distressed woman. Don't admit to any of this on the witness stand, not even if that wily lawyer tries to trick you into it. You don't have to incriminate yourself, it's in our laws. It doesn't matter as long as Matt Engarde is guilty. And tomorrow, I_ will_ find him guilty.

Franziska, so thrown off by the collapse of Adrian's façade, had actually gently rested a hand on her shoulder, feeling her smooth, bare skin tremble as her body shivered almost uncontrollably. To her surprise, it had actually worked, and Adrian had begun to compose herself.

Adrian had trusted her. Of all the looks and glances she'd ever gotten, not one had ever been trust.

Oh, sure, families of the victims and her subordinates on the police force trusted that she would find the accused guilty. But that was trust in Prosecutor von Karma, the name and office even more so than the person. Adrian had trusted… Franziska. She had trusted her so strongly that it was the one thing she had to cling to on the witness stand.

If Franziska had been there, she knew she would have protected Adrian—after all, she was her witness. She would have led Wright off the track, prevented what Adrian had told her coming to light. Miles wouldn't have been able to force those dark moments of hers out into the light like he had—necessary to his case, but not to Franziska's. But she hadn't been there.

It was because Adrian Andrews had trusted so strongly in what Franziska had told her that she was now in jail. A free woman, to be sure—of both jail and her past—but the lawyer did feel responsible for putting her through that hell, even just partially. But it dawned on Franziska that for once, someone _needed_ her. Someone was relying on her… which was something that had never happened before.

It was …nice. Franziska hoped that Adrian would forgive her for putting her through that struggle before moving on with the rest of her life.

---

The dark blue phone rang, and Franziska sighed, picking it up. It was, of course, a news station asking for a comment on the murder case. The prosecutor said that the guilty party would be held responsible for its actions, and immediately hung up, resisting the urge to take the phone's batteries out.

Her desk was covered in papers, though in an orderly fashion. There was a large flat map of the inn on her desk with a diagram of the crime scene. Apparently, there had been a second witness—a college student living in the landlord's cottage, who had been taking pictures of the thunderstorm when the murder occurred. Hans Ernst had delivered his report of the student's account to the prosecutor, and she found it very interesting that the student mentioned the sound of a struggle calling his attention to the inn instead of the storm, when he was able to take a photograph.

The photograph clearly showed a figure leaning out of the window in question, and the flash of a gun… but unfortunately, the bottom of the picture was blurry, so she couldn't make out the victim getting shot.

That, compounded with the reports from forensics that the bullet was indeed a match to the gun, indicated an open-and-shut case. The suspect's alibi was likewise shot down, as the bartender said he'd left the bar at quarter to two—more than enough time to make it to the inn and commit the crime. However, von Karma was not convinced. Her case would be flawless, not built on the incorrect assumptions of foolish police officers. Franziska's own investigating had uncovered some interesting facts.

Firstly, it appeared as if the inn was deep in debt, and not just because of Richter's delay in paying his rent. In fact, four days before the murder Frederich Kruger had decided that he could no longer afford having a three-star chef, and so informed Herzog that he was letting him go.

It also seemed that Markus Richter had more debts to pay, including a massive unpaid tab to the bar he claimed to have been at that night. He never tipped Herzog when he ate there… the bartender had also been aware of the financial state of the inn, and records in the late Kruger's office showed that the owner of the bar had made several unsuccessful attempts to purchase the locale as well.

The account of the student was suspicious, too. If Richter had indeed killed Kruger with a single shot, then why the sound of a struggle? The illuminated gunshot in the photograph was much brighter than Franziska knew was natural… which said to her that it was a blank, which expended more energy in sound and light because it didn't have to propel a bullet.

Franziska brushed some papers off the map and started drawing lines from the location of the body to the two rooms in question. Though the body was laid out in such a way that it could have been knocked directly over by a direct impact fired from Richter's room, the bullet had caught Kruger on the side of the neck… which might have turned him around. Her hand worked quickly, drawing lines that indicated trajectory, the spin of the body… and if she assumed that the blow of the bullet had spun Kruger around in the direction of the shot, it could have easily come from Herzog's window. Which would have also explained the water—he'd had to open it to fire the fatal shot, of course.

Things were beginning to fall into place. Herzog and the bartender had been accomplices. The bartender had slipped something into Richter's drink, causing him to feel sleepy and want to head home—and also, ensuring he'd sleep for a long time. The bartender followed him back to the inn, and gave the revolver from his room to Herzog, before faking the sounds of a struggle—to catch the photographer's attention. He'd then fired a blank gun… to distract from the real killing blow, fired from Richter's gun from Herzog's window.

With Kruger dead, the bartender could pick up the inn for almost nothing, and Herzog would be given his job back… and who better to pin it on than someone who had a possible motive, whom the two of them both hated?

It made sense. Her case was perfect. Her case was built on perfect facts, not flawed assumptions by a detective force too incompetent to even possibly comprehend! The truth was clear now, not muddied by a hasty investigation in some vainglorious obsession with absolute and total faultlessness.

Her father ignored his mistakes or attempted to cover them up, and it had doomed him. Franziska realized this, and so she was determined to learn from them. She would acknowledge her mistakes and correct them. …even the mistake that had put a woman who had trusted her completely behind bars for over four months. That was a mistake, unfortunately, that Franziska could not correct. She'd given Adrian Andrews her number in case she "needed" anything, but what could she possibly need from a prosecutor in Germany while she was in prison? It was a weak attempt to take responsibility, and Franziska knew it.

She glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight, now—she'd been working on the case all afternoon and evening. In Los Angeles, it would be just about three in the afternoon, right now. After taking all day to process her release, Adrian Andrews would be free any moment now… a mistake ended, if not corrected, at least.

Though she would never admit it, Franziska von Karma suddenly felt very drained, sitting down in her chair with a bit less grace than normal.

_Dum da di da dum da da da da…_

Franziska sat up straight in her chair, startled. Her phone was ringing.

The fourth phone was ringing. The one that never, ever rung.

She didn't allow herself to hope it was true, but a part of her expected the name she saw when she looked at the caller ID…

Adrian Andrews was calling her.

The young prodigy suddenly found her heart racing, and she didn't know why. The pedantic little samurai tune was ringing out, and she could see some of the few detectives still in the building looking at her office in disbelief that the Prosecutor could have such a juvenile ring tone. Normally, Franziska's whip would have slashed the air, driving them back to their desks, but she sat silently, stunned and staring at Adrian's name.

Was she calling in anger to confront the person whose fault it was she'd spent a third of a year in jail? Was she calling… was there trouble? That's what the note she'd left had said. Did Adrian… did she actually _need_ her?

_She needs me._

_No… no, that couldn't be it. All the way in Germany, what could I do?_ She was already calculating the cost of a flight from Los Angeles to Hamburg in her head._ She's better off on her own, learning to be independent, anyway._

**_She_** _needs me._

_It's my responsibility that she ended up like that, and no one else's. She's… she trusted me. She needed me, nobody else ever did, not like that. I'm striving for perfection, she's flawed… yet somehow wonderfully flawed, beautifully imperfect, and that doesn't make sense!_

_She needs **me.**_

_But… she could always go to Miles, or Wright, or someone—anyone who _didn't_ betray her trust and get her sentenced to a third of a year in jail for listening to what you told her to do._

_She **needs **__me._

…_what do I do?_

The ringing stopped, as perhaps Adrian thought nobody was there to answer her. Franziska felt her heart catch briefly in her throat, the strangely familiar and unwelcome sting of disappointment with herself… the chance had come and gone, she'd let it slip away, the chance to correct that awful mistake and find someone, maybe, who really _needed_ her. Maybe the one person in the entire world like that…

It rang again, and this time Franziska answered, letting a brief eternity of silence hang in the air before speaking.

"Hello?"

_**Fin.**_


End file.
